As blood spilled, I memoried death's face. Aaron slapped me hard, on the cheek, causing me to crumple to the ground like a rag doll. Despite the pain, I hobbled to my father's side, watching the bastard I call family leave.

Crimson tears poured from his eyes. I held his hand in mine, and felt his pulse get weaker and weaker.

It stopped.

My tears fell. I cried for hours, days maybe. Time had no meaning to me anymore. Everyone had left me, everyone. My path was set- I didn't know it, then, but I had to pay him back. I knew who did this, and even at fourteen, I knew how to pay the bitch back.

---

December sixth was a life-changing day, for sure, but December seventh was even more so. It was the first time I had gotten away with anything.

That morning, I woke up before dawn. I had fallen asleep next to a corpse, and my left half was sticky and crusty with dried blood. I quickly made instant coffee, wincing at the bitter taste. Within minutes, I had more than enough energy. I had learned a few years ago how to make a molotov cocktail, and I did so.

First, I headed to the rusty old shed out back. Aaron's beer bottles were scattered everywhere. I rinsed them out, and headed to the laundry room. I carefully poured a half-inch of laundry soap in each of the thirteen bottles, and brought them two or three at a time out to the garage. I found an old red canister, full of gasoline. A tip into each bottle was enough, before I stopped them with a rag. I rushed into Aaron's room, and found a lighter (and baggies of illegal drugs, which I grabbed also). The drugs would probably sell for at least a couple hundred dollars.

I carefully arranged the molotov cocktails in the shed, before heading down the street. I stopped in front of a cheery yellow house, where the 'scar man' lived. He had a reputation for being dangerous, and I was scared. I didn't really care, though, because I said to myself, If you're scared, you're never gonna kick his ass blue!

The scar man had a long, pink scar running from his left eyebrow to his right cheek. Whenever his cold black eyes focused on you, you couldn't help but tremble. With the sun barely peeking over the horizon, I knocked on he door.

A gruff voice from inside answered, "WHAT!"

"I... I need information."

"Information?" He opened the door a slice, and a bit of smoke came out of his house. He sighted the bags I held in plain sight, and said, "C'm in." he stepped back from the door, and I went through carefully. I held up the bags, and he inspects them. He says, "I'll give you three-fifty," but it sounds like, "I'll ive ya tree-fitty." I said delicately, "Do you know where Aaron went?"

"He went to Vegas to get rid of the authorities. He's already been to prison twice, this time, they'll give him a ride on the ziggy. What'd he do?" At least, that's what I thought he said. I looked at the scar on his face, and said, "I'll tell you if you tell me how you got your scar."

He seemed a bit angry and puzzled at first, but then he just laughed (which turned into a cough). "Deal," he spat out, then picked up a small wastebasket and spit yellow phlegm. His eyes were greedy and cold looking, and were a bit glazed-looking.

"Well," he starts, "I didn't always live here. At first, I was in a police academy, and they was hazin' me. I tried to get away, by jumpin' over a fence with barbed wire up on it. There was a guard dog, and I didn't see him 'ti;; he dragged me down. I quit after dat." I had a new sort of morbid respect for the man. It only took one sentence to tell him my story.

"Yesterday, my dad was killed. Guess who."

A bit of sweat appears on his dark skin. "Shit. Wanna buy some weapons?" He traipsed back to a coffee table next to the yellow couch (probably not it's original color) and pulled out a gun. I didn't know at the time what kind it was, and frankly, I didn't give a shit. I now know that it was a pistol... is a pistol.

"Normal, I'd take about a hundred for that. But I'll give it to ya for fifty if you do something for me."

"Yeah?" I said, nervous as to what he wanted me to do.

"Go ice the guy who lives in that ugly pink house a block down. You know the place?"

I nodded uncertainly. "I know where it is... but how do I 'ice' somebody?"

"Kill the sumbitch."

I took the shiny, cool metal barrel, and transferred it to my hands. "Is it loaded?"

Scar-man nodded. "Got ten rounds in it." I nodded to myself, and headed down to the 'ugly pink house'. I knowcked on the door, but when nobody answered, I broke a window in and unlocked it from the inside. There were some sounds coming from what I took to be a bedroom. There were two guys naked, one on top of the other. I was supposed to 'ice' the one, but I didn't know which one it was. So I shot them both.

When you shoot a gun, you expect it to go where you aim it at. It bucked in my hand, and I turned my wrist a bit to kind of absorb the shock.

I just killed somebody.

If I could kill someone I didn't even know without thinking about it, I could definitely kill Aaron.

Numbly, I searched the only other piece of furniture in the room, the dresser. I gathered some money I found, and some pot I found under he underwear. There were some 'e' pills like those Aaron liked, in a translucent orange bottle with a white cap. I shoved it in my pockets, except half the money (which I put in my shirt for safekeeping) and the gun (which went up my sleeve). I left the bodies there to rot and walked quickly down the street to Scar man's house.

He was pleased with what I brought him. "There's more han a thousand herre. So you fucked him up good?" I had. I'd used up four of my bullets doing it, too.

"Him and another guy that was there, yeah."

"I'd better check." His thick accent (or slur) made it hard to understand, but I had to guess what he said. I followed him out to the pink house again, and showed him the bodies. As soon as he got sight of them he went blank.

"Frankie?" He asked, apparently to the corpses. "That fat fuck! Shit!" He swore for a good minute, and did the whole "stomp around because I'm pissed" bit, and grabbed a gun from his coat pocket. He shot the corpses three more times each, and stormed out, locking the door behind him.

I banged on the door for a while, and stopped when I finally sunk to the floor, crying. Maybe that's when I saw the smoke curling around the edges of the door. Maybe not.

Let's see: I was trapped in a burning building with two dead guys.

Not good.